


La Petite Mort

by greyvvardenfell



Series: ZevWarden Week 2020 [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25031131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyvvardenfell/pseuds/greyvvardenfell
Summary: Caught in a storm after leaving Kinloch Hold, Reydis finally broaches the subject of saving Zevran in the Fade.
Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Brosca
Series: ZevWarden Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1811920
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6
Collections: ZevWarden Week 2020





	La Petite Mort

**Author's Note:**

> Written for ZevWarden Week 2020: Day 2

“Hey, uh, Zevran?”

The howling wind and lash of rain outside the tent almost stole Reydis’s words from her mouth. Before she’d Surfaced, she never knew air was capable of _attacking_. It had always been stagnant in Orzammar. Water, too, would sit calmly and happily in its caverns waiting for the next droplet to ripple its surface. Elements were supposed to just _be_ , barely worth the thought that acknowledging them would entail.

Not this shit.

She comforted herself with the observation that, at least, the companions who’d spent their whole lives tramping around above-ground seemed as damp and unhappy as she felt. Kinloch Hold had barely reached the horizon when the storm hit, and as awful as the carnage they’d encountered in the tower, pushing on to Redcliffe would likely only cause more stress. Already they had chosen to go around Lake Calenhad rather than across, adding days of travel to boots well in need of rest, but Alistair swore the detour into Bann Loren’s lands would be worth the mileage. Secretly, Reydis wondered if that promise was couched in genuine belief or if her fellow Warden held on to the hope that whatever hid in the Bann’s woods would bring him some scrap of closure around Duncan’s death. Loren had fought at Ostagar too. Surely he would know something, have seen something, could offer _something_ that could make their impossible goal seem less like shooting for the distant stars.

“Did you speak to me, Warden?”

Though he was only feet away, easily within arm’s reach, Zevran needed to raise his voice to be heard over the angered air. How the two of them had ended up in the same cramped quarters, Reydis couldn’t say. She resigned herself to sitting beside him, though, since Amgarrak took up too much space within the tent for another arrangement, and tried to ignore the adrenaline prickling along her spine and calves and the twisting snakes that had replaced her stomach.

“Um, yeah. I did.”

It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy his company. If anything, she liked it too much. And that realization, tempered as it was by the surety that whatever she felt would never be acknowledged nor reciprocated, set her flight reflex screaming in her ear. She would only make a fool of herself, reveal how awkward she was, prove over and over that she deserved to be alone and lonely, that she could never be enough for a man like him. Her heart ached.

But she had invited him to stay. And he had.

“I am all ears, as we elves like to say.”

She shouldn’t be doing this. She shouldn’t be prying into something so personal, something she never would’ve been privy to had the sloth demon not interfered. It wasn’t her place. But the pain in his eyes and the lines of his face, the festering wounds with salt crystals still clinging to their clean-cut edges, the panic, the terror, the resignation when he laughed her concern away and the silent hooded figures on either side of the torture rack, tightening the screws with no indication that her interruption would change their plans and the groan of the wood barely loud enough to mask his stifled grunt as his back popped… it lingered.

“I… I guess I wanted to…”

Reydis swallowed, grateful at least for the ever-shifting shadows that hid her blush from his searching golden gaze. There was still time to turn back, to make up some silly excuse for bothering him and let the moment pass. All she had to do was lie. She was good at lying. Years of working for the Carta had ensured that. Lying was as easy as breathing, as falling asleep. As walking through a cave deep underground, confident that the air around you would stay still as you dipped your hand into a clear, clean pool for a drink.

Another squall sharpened its claws against the hardy canvas of their tent. By the time it passed, Reydis knew she couldn’t lie about this. Of all the dreams she’d fallen into, the sloth demon’s magic unable to infiltrate her Dwarven mind as it had the others, Zevran’s was the only one spun from memory instead of wishes. Alistair had been chasing his nephews around a cozy cottage, Wynne instructing wide-eyed children in rudimentary spell-casting… and he was reliving his torment at the hands of the Crows. What kind of life had he led, that the sloth demon chose pain to bind him instead of happiness?

“I guess I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

He raised a pale brow. “Sorry? To my knowledge, you have not offended me.”

“No, about the… the… Your dream. With the Crows. I’m sorry you went through that.”

Zevran eyed her. She couldn’t decide if caution or derision carved the new tension around his mouth. “You did not turn the crank, or bear the blade, or lock the cage door. It is not for you to apologize for such things.”

“No, I know. I just… You didn’t deserve to be hurt like that.”

“Didn’t I?” A flash of anger, struck through with fear, darkened his expression. “The Crows made me strong. Their methods ensured I would not reveal their secrets, were I to fail. Had they allowed me to take contracts without proving my loyalty, I could have destroyed everything the Talons worked for with a single slip of the tongue.”

“Wasn’t there another way?” Reydis asked quietly.

“I would not have taken it had it been offered.” Releasing his breath, and with it his defensiveness, Zevran shifted to sit cross-legged against his pile of leathers and his pack. “I know little of the workings of the Carta, but surely they guard their trust just as closely.”

The Carta… Reydis’s invitation had come on the heels of a back-alley scrap. She’d dislocated one thug’s shoulder and knocked another out completely after slamming his head into a wall of unyielding stone. By the time Beraht arrived, she had broken the last’s nose and nearly pinned them in the dead end, the blood raging in her veins so loud it almost frightened her. Beraht laughed to hear the whimpers of his injured enforcers and offered her the place of the man she’d concussed before crouching down to slit his throat, ensuring that he would never wake. Perhaps others proved their mettle in similar arenas, if they were to be trusted with weapons and autonomy in Beraht’s name. She’d never thought to ask. It had never mattered why they all bore the Carta’s signature woven arm-band and intricate tattoos, or what they had done to earn them. Everyone knew: you obeyed or you died. Dust Town was ruled with a tighter fist than the higher castes would ever realize, and hopelessness makes a convincing argument for doing what you’re told.

She understood, then. Duty, expectation, even pride… those had been Zevran’s fetters, not the pain of what he’d endured. That was merely a reward for obedience, for accepting one’s place at the feet of their betters. To feel it meant you had guaranteed your own safety for another day. Hunger lasted longer than the strain of the rack or the sting of the whip. And how noble you were for emerging from the crucible meant to break you. How satisfied your handlers would be when they found out that their faith in you was not misplaced, that all the resources they’d poured into forging you had not gone to waste.

What a gilded cage you lived in, fighting for every inch you earned and calling it happiness. With your back to the bars, everything became shrouded in your own shadow. To turn around would only open yourself to the daggers waiting to slip between your ribs.

“I think we have a lot in common,” murmured Reydis, half-hoping the storm would drown her out.

Zevran’s reply was just as soft. “Then it is I, dear Warden, who should apologize.”


End file.
